


Luck (or something like it)

by QixxiQ



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Concussions, Could be read either way, Cuddling, GSW, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Multi, Vomiting, Whump, Whump Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QixxiQ/pseuds/QixxiQ
Summary: Written for Claracivry, for the whump exchange, who prompted bridal carry and "don't go to sleep".





	Luck (or something like it)

Breath puffs in front of him, swirling around in the cold air. Outside in the relative wilds of Belgium (far away from prying eyes) in the middle of winter isn’t exactly Napoleon’s ideal, but he sucks it up, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and mentally bemoaning the state his shoes will be in after he missteps into a slush pile.

He’s spent hours at this point burrowing into the informant’s good graces, navigating around suspicion and nerves, assuring and reassuring him that U.N.C.L.E. is on the up and up, and now all he has to do is hand him a not small sum of money and he’ll get an important list of names and dates in return. 

Illya and Gaby hang back, leaning casually and non threateningly against the car, while Napoleon walks across the snowy field to make the exchange. 

It’s so easy. 

Until it isn’t. 

One moment Napoleon is paying their informant, hand stretched out and a reassuring smile on his face, and then, faster than Illya or Gaby can react, the man pulls a gun, head height, and shoots. And Napoleon drops. 

Illya acts. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t strategize, he doesn’t consider the consequences of his action. It’s mindless, blind emotion that has him striding forward, sliding his gun from his jacket, and ending the man. 

Gaby shouts something at him, pulls at his sleeve, but he turns away from her, the rushing in his ears fading as he stomps to where Napoleon last was. 

They’re at the top of a hill, he realizes. And Napoleon had tumbled down backward with the gunshot. Illya can see him at the bottom, slid out onto a frozen lake that stretches out in the valley below.

Gaby appears at his side and gasps. She starts to rush down, but Illya reaches out and snags her back, blocks her view.

He tells her to stay, pushes her back when she, brows furrowed, tries to follow. “No,” he says, voice thick with sorrow and concern. “You don’t need to see this.” She bites her bottom lip and turns away from him. He’s not sure what he thinks he’s protecting her from, she’ll see what’s left of Napoleon eventually, but right now, at this moment, it feels deeply important that she doesn’t follow. 

His stomach is in knots as he slides down the sloping hillside, shoulders tightening the closer he gets to Napoleon’s body.

Gabby watches him hit the bottom and start out onto the ice, slipping a few times before he moves into a step-slide movement. She doesn’t watch any further. Instead, she spins toward the body of their former informant. She rifles through his pockets, her fingers increasingly impatient when she doesn’t find the small notepad she’s looking for. She rips the last pocket out entirely, fuming and shaking. She shoves the body out of her way and begins to dig through his car instead.

Glove box first, then above the visors, and finally under the seats. Her searching is increasingly frantic as she finds nothing, no scrap of what they, what Napoleon, had been promised. She tears into the seats then, using a pocket knife Illya had given her. It’s barely about finding the information now and her eyes are clouded as she slashes at the upholstery and digs through stuffing.

Her last ditch effort is to pop the trunk. It’s empty. She feels all along the lining. With a single sob, she begins to tear into that as well.

Down on the ice, Illya slides slowly towards Napoleon. Every muscle in his body is taught, an overtightened string vibrating and ready to snap. Napoleon’s face is turned away from him, but his mind is providing all sorts of images about what he might find. Close range is never pretty. Entry is bad, burned and pitted, if not entirely blown away. Exit is worse. His traitorous mind brings up every gunshot wound he’s ever seen and some imagined ones that he’s only heard described. He slips closer and then stops mid-step.

Movement. He swears he saw movement. Illya concentrates harder than he ever has, willing there to be something more. Perhaps he sees breath? A rise and fall of the chest? A twitch of a finger? He feels as though something in him may break.

And then Napoleon rolls onto his back.

Every muscle holding Illya up relaxes and he nearly crashes to the ice in relief. He stumbles, slipping, towards Napoleon, desperate to reach him.

Napoleon, for his part, has gone eerily still, like he halted as soon as he rolled. 

“Cowboy,” Illya breaths, soft and desperate.

His eyes stutter open and he squints, trying to focus. They slide shut again and Napoleon raises a hand slowly, vaguely shaking it at Illya. “Ice,” he mumbles. He can feel it creaking, the cold, still surface belying what’s underneath.

“Yes, yes.” Illya inches closer, voice soft and placating. “You are on ice.” He sinks down next to Napoleon. Here he can see the slick of blood and he reaches trembling fingers out to gently brush Napoleon’s face, hesitating at the last moment as though the vision of an alive Napoleon, all parts intact, that he sees before him will shatter if he touches it.

Napoleon’s hand hits Illya on the thigh. His mouth moves, but it’s so damn hard to get the right words out. “Ice,” he tries again, a desperate tone shading the words. 

“I will get you off ice soon,” Illya sooths. His fingers have found the bullet crease, a shallow, glancing blow. Illya once confessed to Gaby that he thought Napoleon was like a cat, smooth lines and trouble. Now Illya thinks that he has the many lives as well.

Napoleon moans, twisting his head away when Illya pushes too hard. His hand curls around the fabric of Illya’s pants and he tugs. “Peril.” The ice snaps and groans under him and Napoleon sucks in a breath.

Illya’s attention, previously entirely focused on Napoleon, finally, thankfully, shifts to the ice. His gaze skitters all around before coming back to meet Napoleon’s eyes and Napoleon can see the realization dawning on his face. 

“Ice—” 

It gives way completely. 

They plunge into frigid darkness. Illya comes up first, gasping and sputtering, arms flailing for a moment as he swivels in the water, searching for Napoleon.

He pops up a second later, hair plastered over his wide eyes, and fumbles for a grip on the ice around the edge of the hole. 

Illya reaches for him, hand wrapping tightly around his arm, tugging him closer. “You okay?”

“Swell,” Napoleon pants as he gives his head a quick shake. He arches an eyebrow at Illya, breath stuttering. “Some Russian you are, can’t tell when the ice is thin.”

“I thought you were dead,” Illya snaps. His eyes narrow for a second before he looks away and pulls Napoleon’s arms up onto the ice, stretching them out in front, assuring that Napoleon won’t slip under the water. 

Napoleon lets him. He concentrates on controlling his breathing, calming the quick little huffs. 

When Illya is sure Napoleon is secure he moves a little ways away to lever himself up onto the ice. “I will pull you up,” he assures Napoleon, taking full control of the situation. He presses his shaking palms against the ice and Napoleon opens his mouth to warn him, but the ice on the edge cracks again, sending Illya back under the water.

Napoleon shoves one hand into the water, feeling around and tugging when he snags onto Illya’s coat. 

Illya breaks the surface again, coughing out a mouthful of water. Napoleon pulls him close this time. He lays his throbbing head against his arm that’s still on the ice. “Should we wait for Gaby?” The tips of his fingers sting and he thinks his eyelashes might be freezing to his cheeks, but he’s also tired and not very interested in giving a 101 lesson about escaping ice holes.

“Nyet.” Illya gets that look, the stubborn obstinate one. He feels along the edge of the ice, breaking pieces off until he thinks it’s thick enough to support him and then starts pulling himself out, dragging himself across the ice this time. There’s little to grip onto. He’s only about halfway out of the water when something hits his hands.

It’s a rope. And at the other end is Gaby. “He’s not dead?” She shouts. 

Napoleon looks up and raises a shaking hand at her. “Not yet,” he answers before Illya has a chance.

Illya turns to him and slips himself back a few inches until he can grab Napoleon’s hand and tug him up onto the ice. “You go first.” He slides the rope into Napoleon’s weak grasp.

His hands don’t really work at the moment, but he pulls himself along anyway. Although he’s pretty sure Gaby’s doing most of the pulling.

When he hits her feet Napoleon stays where he is, simply breathing, eyes slipping shut. He hears her toss the rope back out to Illya and waits for him to drag himself in.

“Up.” Illya tugs at him, far too soon, dragging him to his feet with little help from Napoleon. 

He sways and presses a hand to his head. “A little bossy for someone who nearly drowned us both,” he says archly. 

Illya doesn’t rise to the bait and instead slips his arm around Napoleon’s waist and urges him forward. “Up,” he says again and pushes Napoleon to start up the hill. Napoleon can feel him shaking, the arm against his back steadily thrumming. 

Gaby’s tiny hand reaches out and slides around his waist too. She squeezes against him, like a hug that lasts the entire way up to the top.

When they reach the top Gaby tries to steer them directly towards the car, but Napoleon glances over her head and pulls them all to a stop. His head tilts as he takes in the destruction before him. Next to him Illya mirrors the head tilt. They both look down at Gaby.

She pulls back from them and reaches into her coat to retrieve a small notebook with a shrug. “It was under the spare tire in the trunk.” She wraps herself back around Napoleon and gets them moving towards the car again. “I also got our money back.”

“Mission accomplished, then,” Napoleon quips as they reach the car. He doesn’t even try opening the door though, his hands are shaking too hard and whatever adrenaline rush he got from the cold plunge is rapidly wearing off. Illya sends Gaby to the driver’s seat and all but shoves Napoleon in the back, almost falling on top of him as he stumbles into the car himself. 

Gaby cranks the heat, even though it won’t do much in the back seat, and drives. There’s a safe house that’s closer to here than the city is (and she’s not even sure if they should go back to the city now). It’s still a long, seemingly endless, drive along winding, snow slick, roads. She whips around the corners anyway, cutting seconds, minutes.

Illya has to grab onto Napoleon during the first turn, pulling him close so that he doesn’t slam into the side window. He opens his mouth to admonish her, but Napoleon silences him with a look. He saw her smudged makeup, her red eyes, what was left of their informant’s vehicle, same as he had seen what was left of the informant. Let her drive fast. Let Illya wrap around him. His stomach turns when he thinks about their positions being reversed. 

Or maybe it’s Gaby’s driving. She whips around another turn and Napoleon’s head reels. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows against the rolling in his stomach. 

“No sleeping,” Illya scolds.

Another turn and Napoleon moans quietly. “I’m not.”

Gaby catches Illya’s eyes in the review mirror. He taps the side of his head in silent communication and the next turn she takes is more gentle.

The safe house is a remote cabin, but it’s hardly what anyone would consider rough. There are all the comforts an agent could want: heat, food, first aid, and, most importantly, a secure radio to contact the agency. 

Gaby pulls the car to a jerky halt. She pops out of the front and goes to pull open the back door, but it’s already open. She bites her lip as Napoleon leans out to vomit in the snow. 

“Go,” Illya waves her off. “I’ll bring him in.” He rubs between Napoleon’s still heaving shoulder blades as he leaves to open up the cabin.

“We could stay here,” Napoleon says, foolishly, tiredly, the very thought of moving highly unappealing at the moment. Even simply half falling out the door to cough up dinner was too much.

“We will freeze,” Illya responds, reasonably, over chattering teeth. “We are already freezing.” He gives Napoleon a moment, waits to see if he’ll bring anything else up, and then scoots, halting and awkward, out of the small car. He pulls Napoleon out and leans him against the vehicle. 

Napoleon has every intention of standing by himself. The cabin is mere feet away, a few steps and he’s there. But his feet are lead weights and his knees are filled with gelatin  
and the ground is tilting alarmingly. When Illya lets him go to shut the car door he crumples into a heap. “I’m fine,” he chatters, and doesn’t move.

Illya bends down, stiff arms intending to scoop Napoleon up. Napoleon shifts away, not willing to conceded the dignity of being carried like a child. 

“Solo.” Somehow Illya’s accent is so much thicker on this one word. Desperate and pleading. 

So Napoleon lets Illya pick him up. He’s gentle, even though he’s almost shaking apart himself. Napoleon presses his face against Illya’s cold neck, burying his eyes against the bobbing scenery. “Almost like we’re married,” he mumbles when they cross the threshold. He thinks maybe Illya didn’t hear, he doesn’t say anything, but then there’s quick tightening of Illya’s hands and a stutter in his step.

Gaby circles around them to shut the door, locking in the heat that’s steadily pumping from the gas fireplace, arms full of blankets.

As soon as Illya deposits Napoleon on the bed Gaby goes to work stripping him of his clothes, leaving Illya to struggle with his own outfit. Jacket and shirt first, and a blanket around his shoulders. She pulls his ruined shoes and socks off and pressed his ice cube toes between her hands. “Fingers,” Napoleon says and Gaby looks up from where she’s kneeling on the floor, eyes catching his pale, red splotched hands gripping onto the blanket. He needs those. She reaches up, gently uncurling the numb digits and wraps her hands around them, pressing them to her soft, warm lips.

When she reaches for his pants he brushes her hand away. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she sighs, shaking her head. It’s true, but Napoleon would still prefer to keep some sense of decorum, a small modicum of control in naked situations. He lets her push his hands away and whisk his pants off. Gaby piles blankets on top of him before turning to Illya, whose fingers have only managed a few buttons.

Napoleon watches from his nest of blankets as Gaby efficiently divests Illya of every bit of clothing, running her warm hands over his arms, interlacing her fingers with his. He watches Illya watch Gaby, icy eyes tracking her every move. She whispers in his ear as she wraps him up and the disappears into the small kitchenette area. 

Illya adjusts himself so that he’s laying down, still cocooned in blankets. “Come here, Cowboy,” he says, patting the space next to him. When Napoleon leans close Illya pulls him in tight. He squirms, adjusting both them and the blankets until a pocket opens up and it’s cool skin against cool skin. Napoleon sucks in a breath. “Skin contact, best when cold,” Illya says and buries his nose into Napoleon’s damp hair while wrapping an arm around his middle. 

“Not when both people are cold,” Napoleon says back. But shaking next to Illya is miles better than shaking alone. He feels, at least psychologically, warmer already. He lets the even, warming puffs of Illya’s breath relax him and his eyes slid shut.

Gaby returns and kneels in front of him. She taps him on the face. “Don’t go to sleep.” 

“Illya’s asleep,” Napoleon counters without opening his eyes. 

The arm around his waist tightens and Illya murmurs against his neck. “Not asleep.”

“Illya didn’t get shot in the face.“ Gaby presses against the crease the bullet left along Napoleon’s temple. The blood had washed off during his plunge and there was only a minor amount matting his hair down now. It barely looked like anything was there, but still, her fingers move lightly over the wound. “You were lucky.”

“You should thank the ground,” Napoleon says, eyes barely opening.

She frowns at him and he takes a breath before explaining.

“It fell out from under me, at the top of the hill.” He holds her gaze until finally she leans forward and presses her forehead against his. 

There’s just enough room for her to join them on the bed and she presses herself onto as much of Napoleon as she can manage, sandwiching him between her and Illya, hand moving gently through his hair. The shaking is slowly fading. “Lucky,” she says again and lets him close his eyes, promising to wake him up in an hour.


End file.
